Yesterday after I finished mulling over what it means that Iraq is in turmoil yet again, I found out that a veteran I met mere months ago recently committed suicide. I barely knew him. I spent a few hours with him and his wife in New York when we went to the WWP Courage Awards. We have friends in common. He was widely admired.
I asked Karl to sit with me and brought up a picture of the man and his wife.
"Oh, I remember that guy," Karl said, which is what I had been expecting. He wouldn't have known the name but the face was familiar.
"He committed suicide," I told Karl.
"Really? Man. That sucks."
Yup. That pretty much sums it up. It sucks.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
lather rinse repeat
There are numerous news pieces lately about how bad things are getting in Iraq.
I am underwhelmed and unsurprised.
Karl and I have talked numerous times about exactly how long people have been fighting in the middle east. There have been wars in that area longer than there have been civilizations there.
Karl was not in Iraq because of some personal conviction he could broadly impact the state of Iraq. Karl was in Iraq because he volunteered to serve his county.
I have seen several opinion pieces written about how the bad news coming out of Iraq will impact veterans of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation New Dawn. I, obviously, never went to Iraq. I never made friends with an interpreter, who believed his country could be better with America's help with such fervor that he was putting his entire family at risk of death and torture to help our soldiers. I never handed out food to old women who waited in line for hours for their share of rice. I certainly never shot a gun to protect the life of the man next to me.
However, I have given gifts. I have given a Whopper to a homeless girl in a Houston Greyhound bus station. I have given water bottles to men holding signs begging for money in 110 degree heat in Austin in August. I have picked up litter as I walked with my children through a park.
These acts are either meaningful or they are meaningless. The girl in Houston was hungry again, mere hours later, and I was well on my way to wherever I was headed, leaving her and her hunger behind. The men holding signs may use their water to hydrate themselves or they may pour it into a bowl for a thirsty dog or they may trade it for a cigarette. The park will, most definitely, be littered in again.
It makes me laugh how little control we have over how our actions and words are interpreted. We do the best we can, unfailingly. It is really all we can do.
The men and women who signed up to serve our country did exactly that. Our troops, because of motives I will never understand, tried to bring some modicum of peace to Iraq. We are not fixers. We are just people doing the best we can. Sometimes our actions have a lasting effect. Sometimes they don't. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing.
Our service members volunteered to serve and they saved each other when they could. That is more than enough. That is something to be proud of. They made a difference, maybe not a lasting difference in Iraq but a lasting difference in the lives of the people they stood next to in battle. They made a lasting difference to their friends and families who saw them in a new light and reevaluated what to expect of themselves and others. They made a difference to themselves, earning their citizenship or college money. They made a difference to me and every single other military spouse whose loved one came home. I know my husband is only here because of the men who stood beside him, figuratively but also, very very literally.
People litter, people fight, life sucks. Those are not good reasons to stop doing the best we can every day. They are horrible reasons to reevaluate what we have done in our lives. We do the best we can. In the end, that's all we can do and it is more than enough. It is amazing. It is honorable. It is humbling.
I am underwhelmed and unsurprised.
Karl and I have talked numerous times about exactly how long people have been fighting in the middle east. There have been wars in that area longer than there have been civilizations there.
Karl was not in Iraq because of some personal conviction he could broadly impact the state of Iraq. Karl was in Iraq because he volunteered to serve his county.
I have seen several opinion pieces written about how the bad news coming out of Iraq will impact veterans of Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation New Dawn. I, obviously, never went to Iraq. I never made friends with an interpreter, who believed his country could be better with America's help with such fervor that he was putting his entire family at risk of death and torture to help our soldiers. I never handed out food to old women who waited in line for hours for their share of rice. I certainly never shot a gun to protect the life of the man next to me.
However, I have given gifts. I have given a Whopper to a homeless girl in a Houston Greyhound bus station. I have given water bottles to men holding signs begging for money in 110 degree heat in Austin in August. I have picked up litter as I walked with my children through a park.
These acts are either meaningful or they are meaningless. The girl in Houston was hungry again, mere hours later, and I was well on my way to wherever I was headed, leaving her and her hunger behind. The men holding signs may use their water to hydrate themselves or they may pour it into a bowl for a thirsty dog or they may trade it for a cigarette. The park will, most definitely, be littered in again.
It makes me laugh how little control we have over how our actions and words are interpreted. We do the best we can, unfailingly. It is really all we can do.
The men and women who signed up to serve our country did exactly that. Our troops, because of motives I will never understand, tried to bring some modicum of peace to Iraq. We are not fixers. We are just people doing the best we can. Sometimes our actions have a lasting effect. Sometimes they don't. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing.
Our service members volunteered to serve and they saved each other when they could. That is more than enough. That is something to be proud of. They made a difference, maybe not a lasting difference in Iraq but a lasting difference in the lives of the people they stood next to in battle. They made a lasting difference to their friends and families who saw them in a new light and reevaluated what to expect of themselves and others. They made a difference to themselves, earning their citizenship or college money. They made a difference to me and every single other military spouse whose loved one came home. I know my husband is only here because of the men who stood beside him, figuratively but also, very very literally.
People litter, people fight, life sucks. Those are not good reasons to stop doing the best we can every day. They are horrible reasons to reevaluate what we have done in our lives. We do the best we can. In the end, that's all we can do and it is more than enough. It is amazing. It is honorable. It is humbling.
Monday, June 2, 2014
pedestals and wheelchairs
This post contains profanity, repeatedly. I debated removing or editing it, but decided it was crucial in it's original form to the story and the spirit of the story.
"Dennis," I say, "hand me your card so we can pay."
He reaches into the fanny pack under his wheelchair to get out his debit card. He shakes and it takes a minute. By the time he has gotten his card on the bar, I have gotten my card out to pay for Karl and I's drinks. One of the other couples with us is waiting to pay and the woman of the other couple has gone with my husband to claim two tables in the back.
The bartender comes back for our cards.
"Oh," he says, "his drink is on me." He gestures at Dennis.
"Fucking wheelchair!" I burst out.
"You know," I ask the bartender, "that these men are all disabled veterans?"
Yes, he knows. He has worked the banquets the previous nights. He doesn't know that my husband drove over an IED, just like Dennis except that Dennis developed MS after his TBI, which is why he's in a wheelchair. He doesn't know that one of the other veterans in our group was shot in the head. He doesn't know, and neither do I for that matter, the story of the fourth veteran in our small group.
The woman who has gone to claim tables for us turns to my husband and asks him how long we have known Dennis.
About an hour.
A woman next to us at the bar is laughing incredulously. Dennis is cracking up.
"Look, it's okay for me to say it. It wouldn't be okay for you to say it," I point at the bartender, "or for you," I point at the laughing blond, "but it's okay for me because I get it."
The bartender neglects to charge me for Karl's drink anyway.
Later, I make sure to tell Dennis that I don't begrudge him his wheelchair or his free drink. The reason I cursed his wheelchair is that it's what everyone thinks you need to be a disabled vet.
There is a fine line between respecting veterans and putting them on pedestals. I appreciate Dennis. He is funny and sincere. I appreciate that he served our country. I don't "appreciate his sacrifice" or any other such trite dismissal of his injuries and the way his life has changed, neither do I feel sorry for him. Things happen. What happened to Dennis is that he volunteered to serve his country, his country sent him to war, he drove over a bomb, and he developed MS. It happens. Driving over bombs happens. Wheelchairs happen. Sometimes your fucking wheelchair gets you free drinks, which is probably not reason enough to drive over a bomb or even motivation enough to join the military.
I met Dennis our last night in New York. The next morning at breakfast as I walked into an elegantly appointed room on the 18th floor of the Waldorf=Astoria, Dennis spotted me.
"Fucking wheelchair," he yelled at me and we both erupted in laughter.
I said hi to his mom who was with him and she told me that the night before we had gone to the bar, she had left Dennis downstairs. Her mother called and started giving her flack for leaving Dennis alone in a strange city by himself in his wheelchair. So Dennis' mother went to look for him.
"When I got downstairs, I found him surrounded by other veterans."
Of course she did. He's one of them. They're all part of the same club and they have each other's backs. He's perfectly safe, wheelchair and all, among his brothers and sisters.
There is a fine line between putting someone on a pedestal and ostracizing them. Not here though. Not with these vets. There are no pedestals, just service dogs and brotherhood and fucking wheelchairs.
"Dennis," I say, "hand me your card so we can pay."
He reaches into the fanny pack under his wheelchair to get out his debit card. He shakes and it takes a minute. By the time he has gotten his card on the bar, I have gotten my card out to pay for Karl and I's drinks. One of the other couples with us is waiting to pay and the woman of the other couple has gone with my husband to claim two tables in the back.
The bartender comes back for our cards.
"Oh," he says, "his drink is on me." He gestures at Dennis.
"Fucking wheelchair!" I burst out.
"You know," I ask the bartender, "that these men are all disabled veterans?"
Yes, he knows. He has worked the banquets the previous nights. He doesn't know that my husband drove over an IED, just like Dennis except that Dennis developed MS after his TBI, which is why he's in a wheelchair. He doesn't know that one of the other veterans in our group was shot in the head. He doesn't know, and neither do I for that matter, the story of the fourth veteran in our small group.
The woman who has gone to claim tables for us turns to my husband and asks him how long we have known Dennis.
About an hour.
A woman next to us at the bar is laughing incredulously. Dennis is cracking up.
"Look, it's okay for me to say it. It wouldn't be okay for you to say it," I point at the bartender, "or for you," I point at the laughing blond, "but it's okay for me because I get it."
The bartender neglects to charge me for Karl's drink anyway.
Later, I make sure to tell Dennis that I don't begrudge him his wheelchair or his free drink. The reason I cursed his wheelchair is that it's what everyone thinks you need to be a disabled vet.
There is a fine line between respecting veterans and putting them on pedestals. I appreciate Dennis. He is funny and sincere. I appreciate that he served our country. I don't "appreciate his sacrifice" or any other such trite dismissal of his injuries and the way his life has changed, neither do I feel sorry for him. Things happen. What happened to Dennis is that he volunteered to serve his country, his country sent him to war, he drove over a bomb, and he developed MS. It happens. Driving over bombs happens. Wheelchairs happen. Sometimes your fucking wheelchair gets you free drinks, which is probably not reason enough to drive over a bomb or even motivation enough to join the military.
I met Dennis our last night in New York. The next morning at breakfast as I walked into an elegantly appointed room on the 18th floor of the Waldorf=Astoria, Dennis spotted me.
"Fucking wheelchair," he yelled at me and we both erupted in laughter.
I said hi to his mom who was with him and she told me that the night before we had gone to the bar, she had left Dennis downstairs. Her mother called and started giving her flack for leaving Dennis alone in a strange city by himself in his wheelchair. So Dennis' mother went to look for him.
"When I got downstairs, I found him surrounded by other veterans."
Of course she did. He's one of them. They're all part of the same club and they have each other's backs. He's perfectly safe, wheelchair and all, among his brothers and sisters.
There is a fine line between putting someone on a pedestal and ostracizing them. Not here though. Not with these vets. There are no pedestals, just service dogs and brotherhood and fucking wheelchairs.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Home
Home is a funny thing. As we pass over the mountains on our descent to the Seattle airport, I look at the snow caps and think I'm home.... Then I feel a tug for all the places that I'm not. Home is Texas, where I probably won't live again. Home is being surrounded by caregivers and veterans, like we were this past weekend at the majestic Waldorf=Astoria, a place much cleaner than my house. Home is, sometimes, the 1600 square foot rambler we are returning to, but sometimes, sitting among our things, I feel heartbreakingly homesick.
I continuously thank Karl for serving in the military not because I am overly patriotic but because if he hadn't served, I would not have the extended family I am fortunate to be a part of.
This week, Karl and I attended the 9th Annual WWP Courage Awards. Karl packed his suit, but forgot his tie, belt and shoes.
I met famous people... Well, really, one famous person. I met Matthew Modine. Everyone knew who he was... Except me. I told him I didn't know who he was and he said, " you can google me." I got a little excited, not thinking about his vast acting career compared to my sparse writing career and said, "oh! You can google me!" And handed him a TBI pamphlet. I was excited that I am googleable, but I don't think he was impressed with me. I have googled him now and I have never seen anything he was in.
I also met heroes, scads of them, men and women who served our country, who fought for each other, and who count me, by mere fact of marriage, as family, which is a terrifyingly great honor.
I heard, again, the story of the amazing impact WWP has on great men and women in their lowest moments. On the way to the airport, heading home, a man asked me "you know how they take you to the hospital right?"
Yes, I know. I know that when you get injured in war, they cut your clothes off you and deliver you nude to whomever will continue to save your life.
"All I wanted," said the man before me, "was a pair of clean underwear."
Then someone walked in his room holding a backpack and in the backpack were clean clothes.
"And I said, 'What organization are you with?' Wounded Warrior Project. That was 10 years ago, in the beginning, and I've been involved with them ever since."
Then someone walked in his room holding a backpack and in the backpack were clean clothes.
"And I said, 'What organization are you with?' Wounded Warrior Project. That was 10 years ago, in the beginning, and I've been involved with them ever since."
Under Armour has taken over the backpack program in conjunction with WWP and Under Armour was the recipient of The Talkhouse Award for Community Service this past week at the WWP Courage Awards.
Above all else, though, I spent four days in New York City at a family reunion, which is what WWP events feel like to me. The alumni and caregivers are our people. The people who work for WWP and have served themselves, the ones who don't stand up when everyone who has served our country is asked to stand, they are our people too. One man, who works for WWP, loaned my husband a pair of shoes then took off before we could return them. In many situations this would be horribly embarrassing, but instead, it is funny, because we know he gets it. He gets how easy it is to pack a suit but none of the accessories when you are living with a brain injury.
I saw several veterans, caregivers, and staff I have met before and I met several new "family members." If home is where the heart is, my home is no single place. Instead my home is everywhere these people go - the people who make up my tribe, the people who get me, who get Karl, who provide us a safe place to be broken and a safe place to work on being whole.
I saw several veterans, caregivers, and staff I have met before and I met several new "family members." If home is where the heart is, my home is no single place. Instead my home is everywhere these people go - the people who make up my tribe, the people who get me, who get Karl, who provide us a safe place to be broken and a safe place to work on being whole.
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